Autobiography

by Eman

Your face resembles an egg that has fallen out of a basket and cracked in such a way that it mirrors human features. Your hair sprouts from the smooth, beige, eggshell scalp like wires tangling and intertwining into a thick carpet loom, covering your most misshapen features. When you talk you gurgle a yolky, unintelligible stream of profanity that transfixes your audience and causes them to nod and mumble gratitude in their shocked and repulsed states. You do not walk but you wobble uncertainly from one point to another. You refuse help from those kind and brave enough to offer it, for you are too proud and unwilling to admit that you cannot take one step without your constantly shifting center of gravity causing you to fall and tumble in circles. Your sense of style is usually twenty years behind everyone else, never outdated enough to be vintage but always so that you would fit in with the nouveau-riche of a Russian mining town who trade tapes of the Fresh Prince of Bel Air. You have a filmy air of self-importance and intrigue that is transparent enough to be easily seen through if one were to focus hard enough, but you make it difficult for anyone to focus what with your gurgling and tumbling about.

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